


Fake AH Drabbles

by Littlestshaadow



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fake AH Crew, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 22:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11323329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlestshaadow/pseuds/Littlestshaadow
Summary: Fake ah crew snippets and drabbles.





	1. Trevor

The red glow from the digital clock on the table hid the color of the room; it was the only source of illumination. He was sitting, back against the bedframe, foot against the wall. It was a shitty, tiny motel room with the blinds pulled tight, hiding the stains on the ceiling and carpet from alcohol and old cigarettes. The clock beeped the hour.

Two A.M.

He reached up and rubbed his face, then ran his hand through his dark hair. From sweat and blood it stuck up at an odd angle. His shirt had been white once. He undid the first button at the collar, letting it relax around his throat.

He stood, bracing himself on the wall for a moment.

_ Why do people always make that mistake. Why do  _ I  _ always make that mistake. _

Leaning on the sink, he flicked the lights on. His own dark eyes stared back at him, framed by sharp cheekbones and an angular nose smeared with blood. He turned the sink on low, watching his hands leave blood on the edges, on the taps, on the light switch.

_ I used to just be a thief. _

Letting the cool water rinse his hands, then splashing it out on his face, then returning to rinse his hands. He needed to clean up but this was not the place. Flicking the tap off, then the lights, he exited the bathroom. He checked the bodies; six. The meeting wasn’t supposed to be that rough. At least no one had brought a gun. He picked up the duffle one of the others had carried in; opening it he found explosives. Enough to level this area of the motel, anyway. They’d needed a safecracker. They’d dissolved their plans before they even got started.

He set them up, rigged the timer. Left the room, door shut tight. He was half an hour away on foot, tucked into an alley with a hat and a sweater he’d found on a bench covering the bloodstains on his white shirt. The explosive went off. He kept walking, reaching the heart of the city; a penthouse owned by the people he worked for. He sighed and turned the corner, headed for the office instead. His access code was good; the place was currently empty. He’d lost his phone a month ago. Lost contact a month ago. He sat down, leaning on the wall in the corner by the window, watching the city emergency crews deal with the fallout of his little mess.

He’d ditched the sweater and cap as soon as he’d reached their offices.

He was empty handed- nothing to show except the ashes that would remain of an enemy crew that had been trying to get him killed.

_ Don’t hire your enemy thinking that makes them an easier target. _

He watched the lights from the crews down below for a while. Heard the door open, heard the footsteps. He stayed very still, not sure what to expect of the killer who’s walk he knew by sound. He figured they thought he was dead after the loss of contact.

He heard the footsteps pause in the doorway. He couldn’t see their reflection in the window; the light was wrong. He heard them take steps and stop again. He saw the rough denim and heavy boots, purposely facing the city, watching what was unfolding. He watched the jacket, blue and black leather, fall to the floor as the killer deemed it unnecessary.

He didn’t flinch when his friend’s hand rested on his knee. The other man didn’t speak; both knew the value of silence.

He could feel his friend’s eyes watching him. He heard the whisper of cloth as the other man stood, leaving the room for a moment before returning with a glass of water.

“Thanks, Ryan.”

“I’ll tell Geoff you’re back. We’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Trevor, you’re part of our Crew. That means something.”

Ryan sat down again, on level with Trevor, watching out the window. 


	2. Ryan

The water from the tap was cold; he didn’t care. The black rag he soaked under it was stained white and gray. Sometimes he had red in the mix; today not so much. He scrubbed the paint off his face, looking up at the cracked mirror with a grin.

This was a personal errand.

He took his long dyed-black hair and pulled it out of his face. It was longer than usual; he’d been busy. The pony-tail reached his mid-back.

Looking at the face paints, he purposefully forwent the white. Grabbing the red he used to use, he smeared it down below where the black would go for his eyes, then splashed just enough water to make it run down his face. He’d never used this face paint look around the crew; never had a reason to readopt the persona it went with.

At least, not when working with them.

He took the black and darkened around his eyes, letting it fight the water a bit and run with the red. He chose to avoid sealing it.

Grabbing a very old, very stained denim jacket and his knives, he left the shitty motel room. Walking alleys until he reached the nightclub, he met no other. He crept in through the back door, ignored by the staff.

Walking out onto the club floor to a blast of dubstep he grimaced; not the best music, really. People were staring.  _ Good. _

The lights that flashed overhead first painted the scene a hot green; he could see who he was looking for.

Within ten feet of his target, the room turned a nuclear violet.

The man saw him and turned to run as the light became a bloody red.

Catching his target by the back of the jacket, he threw him into the dimly lit graffitied bathroom.

It smelled like piss and misery.

“ _ Do you remember me?” _ he’d dropped a heel into the man’s ribs. One probably broke.

_ “Jesus!!” _

Crouching, he grabbed the man by the shirt, then violently dropped him onto the sink.

His knife sunk into the man’s shoulder and he  _ twisted. _

_ “I’m not Jesus.”  _ A violent, slasher-like grin accompanied the statement.

The man’s screams and protests were not silenced quickly; in fact, the slow, methodical torture drew out from minutes to an hour quite swiftly.

Almost tenderly, the knife dug into the man’s wrist, separating each tendon from the muscles.

He moved on from the wrist to then split the hands between each pair of fingers. Slowly. Tenderly, even.

The victim was  _ begging  _ at this point. Eventually, finally, he passed out from the pain.

A gentle drag of a knife across the throat silenced him permanently as he bled out.

Standing, he exited the bathroom.

The room went a brilliant blue that strobed to white as he walked out through the back door.

He’d made it several blocks away, back to the motel.

Sink on high, at least the pressure was good.

He tossed the old denim in the duffle he’d brought; it would be burned. No more reason to adopt that persona again. Soaking his face, he cleaned the disgusting mess of paint and blood before peeling out of the old tee-shirt. Grabbing a white tee off the end of the bed, he slipped into that, letting his hair hang loose as he walked out to the old beater he’d… borrowed… for the event.

The drive back to Los Santos would take some time, sure. It would be a nice hour or two to himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song I'm not Jesus- Apocalyptica ft Corey Taylor


	3. Jeremy

So the plan was stupid, so the gaudy color scheme was purposeful. Walk in, swagger and attitude. Blow the place, create a distraction. Easy.

The first two guards didn’t have time to warn their buddies inside. Their loss. He idly tossed some bombs in some side rooms. The building would level itself after the last one in his hand tripped.

The bright sunlight that filtered through the warehouse skylights illuminated the situation far better than intended. The cocky swagger that accompanied the godawful color scheme this  _ kid  _ wore suggested he had no idea what he was walking into.

The first to react beyond observation to the brightly clad stranger in the mix was a contrast in every way possible; tall, well put together, subdued color scheme… he walked out to meet the stranger down below.

The shit eating grin that was offered in response to a threat did nothing to relax the gangster who had taken exception. He took a swing at the stranger.

The fist that met the gangster’s face was enough to lay him out. Grinning, the  _ kid  _ shrugged at the group who had wandered out to stare him down.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you know who I am??” It was a cocky, shit-eating statement that infuriated the gang. The Bostonian accent didn’t help.

The second gangster to take a swing didn’t even get a chance to land it; the quick-drawn pistol unloaded through the foreheads of all but one gangster- out of bullets- made sure of that.

Maybe that’s why the kid wore a godawful Stetson.

“hey-hey kid maybe we can cut a deal, yo?” the surviving gangster had pulled a gun himself.

“Ever heard of Travis Bickle?” the kid grinned again. “W W W dot doesn’t know what’s comin’ for him dot com.”

“What the fuck are you smoking, kid?”

“Don’t you know who I am?? I’m Lil’ J!!” the statement was accompanied by a toss of something that the gangster reflexively caught. He glanced up to find the purple-gold clad cowboy had disappeared.

The pipe bomb in his hand ticked twice and he glanced down to see the timer had hit zero.

Driving away from the scene in a godawful bright purple and orange sports car made him a target for both cops and rivals alike; the explosion only drew more attention.

Good.

“First bomb went off, Lindsay.” He paused, “Swingin’ by for Rye, gonna wreck some shop.”

Dragging the handbrake up, he skidded sideways partway up the street, stopping six or so feet from the masked killer, who jumped in.

“Let’s go!! Battle Buddies amiright?”

The chuckle from under the mask suggested amusement at the enthusiasm.

It wasn’t like it was unbridled, or even unfounded.

They were having  _ fun  _ with this one. No one needed to know it was a power play until it was too late.

Just like underestimating the five-foot-four  _ kid  _ walking into the room with no visible backup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song Final Boss by Doomtree; if you're looking to reblog these on tumblr they're at littlestshaadow.tumblr.com/tagged/drabble but you don't have to; they're just random


	4. Gavin

The glow of the laptop screen split the darkness like a piercing eye, giving sharp relief to the face of the man hunched over it. His fingers were light on the keys as he input a series of commands; the readout confirmed their successes.

Now he had to wait.

He was sweating; the nerves of the situation were getting to him. The odds of something going horribly wrong were too good.

_ I damn well better be wrong. _

The next two hours saw him sitting in the dark waiting for any kind of feedback from his people. He was watching the screen for any indication of his friend’s whereabouts and successes. The sound of the door unlatching gave him enough warning to dive into the shadows and pull a gun.

“The Golden boy’s gotta be here somewhere.” The smoker’s gravelly tone was accompanied by a rival crewmember who stepped in.

The sliding click of a silenced pistol shot ended him with a dull thud.

_ That’s it. No running. _

The gold-plated pistol dropped the next three enemy crewmembers to come through the door; forehead, throat, eye. He heard the comm crackle back to life in his ear; his boss asking his situation.

“Tense.”

Two more entered; a missing ear on the front of the two spelled the other’s demise. The second shot ensured both would not be rising again.

“We’re coming for you, buddy!” the words echoed through his earpiece as he checked as best he could the hall outside.

_ Ah. There you are. Slimy bastard. _

He fired into the hall; seemingly blind, yet hitting his mark.

He chuckled; everyone assumed the ‘Golden Boy’ was all show.

Hell, everyone thought the whole crew was show; a flighty bunch of noncommittal types.

The echo of gunfire in the building signaled the return of his people; a call down the hall indicated they’d made it to him.

“I thought you’d run.” The masked killer had asked, four hours later.

“Not this time.” A chuckle, a dangerous smirk behind gold-framed shades. “Too important. Couldn’t let ‘em get that info.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song Sulfur by slipknot; specifically the line 'You don't always know where you stand/till you know that you won't run away'


	5. Chapter 5

The jet engine flared to life under his hands as he fiddled with the pre-flight control checks. He would be playing a different game today.  
The plane was painted an obnoxious shade of green. Roaring out above the city, he purposefully dove in close to the police stations, a nip here, a roll there.  
In place of actual explosives, his first drops were paper stars, in green or black. That didn’t do anything to help his cause, as he came around to the first helicopter in his sights.  
He flew straight at them; deadly fast game of chicken solved by an explosive and a quick pull back on the control column.  
The radio crackled to life; they were scrambling military jets after him.  
Cranking back and left on the column, dropping his foot to the floor on the opposite, he went from six thousand feet to roughly eight hundred before he recovered from the slip and cranked the throttle to full. His instruments alerted him to the approach of his new friends.  
“Full moon over Memphis, eh boys?” He grinned into his radio mic on their frequency.  
The first of them to attempt firing wasn’t expecting the rapid knife edge ascent that hid most of his craft from view, nor were the rest expecting the inverted roll that brought him level with their jets with enough gunfire to drop three of their six pilots.  
Looping back around he caught sight of his actual target; gunning the throttle again he sped past their jets to fire the last of his targeting missiles at the rather inconspicuous, run down farmhouse. He passed over it as the explosions happened, prompting one of his tails to bank off to avoid the debris.  
The rapid climbing turn executed caused his closest tail- one who obviously was paying too much attention to radar- to impact the side of the Mount Chiliad.  
Dropping a flare enabled him to be missed by a homing missile aimed in his direction with the added side effect of covering a plane in scrap that forced it to land. He could see the last jet aimed at him; they were miles apart and head on.  
“Armageddon, carry me home!!” he yelled, pulling the release on the emergency eject, launching him clean away from the ensuing explosion of two.  
His chute pulled, he cut away from the seat, kicking off like a high diver to pull the second, more maneuverable chute and his pistol from his leg. He could see the remaining pilot on the ground.  
“Geoff, I need pick up, middle of nowheresville.”  
“Fine. Sending Matt.” The laughter on the other end of his radio was now apparent outside the noise of the jet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song Armageddon by Prism.


	6. Chapter 6

The soft echo of footsteps against the marble floors indicated someone had joined him by the safe; he was crouched, hands dancing over the wiring that would ensure their departure would be  _ explosive _ .

They were communicating with hand signs today; a test to see if this would work for further heist plans or not. His accomplice’s quick  _ You Ready?  _ Was met with a nod. Standing, he set the timer. The pair walked out; they were in similar ensembles, though personal taste was showing. Both had leather and denim, but one wore a mask. They hit the front entrance of the bank in time to get handed weapons—in his case, a SMG—and face the cops who had gathered outside.

Or rather, had been expected to gather outside. The group looked at each other; this was beyond odd. They headed for their escape vehicles. His, a motorcycle, let him zip away into the streets as the others acquired theirs; some together, some not.

The ride was quiet save for the occasional passerby recognizing him and frantically yelling; obviously, they assumed something was up if he was out here. Reaching his intended safe house, he activated his radio to hear the chatter of his friends.

“I’m at the safe house; anyone else joining me here?”

“I think Trevor’s there already.”

He nodded to himself as he walked in through the back door—it was unlocked, oddly enough. Reaching for the light switch, he felt fabric brush against his fingertips. He went to grab whoever was there, but got pulled through the door and shoved to the ground. He heard the door shut and realized he was likely in for a beating as the lights flicked on; he could see one of them by their boots. A quick grab dragged the man off balance and brought him down. Taking the opportunity, he threw himself forwards, rolling to a standing position and leveling the gun, cutting down his assailants.

_ Where is Trevor? _

He turned and ran through the kitchen, looking for any sign of a fight. Nothing here, nothing in the living room, nothing on the stairs. He shoved open the three doors on the hall; nothing there either.

He heard the door downstairs open again, but didn’t hear any footsteps. He crept down the stairs, looking for any sign as to who might be there.

“Michael? Are you here?”

“Yeah. How long have you been here?”

“Minutes? May have had to take out a problem… I see you had a similar situation.”

He’d made it down the stairs to glance around the corner, seeing his friend alone.

“Yeah. I’m not ready to die at the hands of some jackasses.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember what song this had been based on and I feel like it wasn't the most in character thing, but ::shrug::

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr; each chapter was technically inspired by some random song in my playlist. Trevor's is Golden Earring's Twilight Zone.


End file.
